The Plum Tree Read online

  More advance praise for Ellen Marie Wiseman and

  THE PLUM TREE

  “The meticulous hand-crafted detail and emotional

  intensity of The Plum Tree immersed me in Germany

  during its darkest hours and the ordeals its citizens had

  to face. A must-read for WWII fiction aficionados—

  and any reader who loves a transporting story.”

  —Jenna Blum, New York Times bestselling

  author of Those Who Save Us

  The PLUM TREE

  ELLEN MARIE WISEMAN

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  More advance praise for Ellen Marie Wiseman and

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Teaser chapter

  A READING GROUP GUIDE - THE PLUM TREE

  Discussion Questions

  Copyright Page

  For my mother, Sigrid,

  the strongest woman I know—

  with much love and admiration.

  In memory of my beloved sister, Cathy.

  I miss you every day.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One of my fondest fantasies during the endless solitary hours spent writing this novel was the prospect of honoring the people who supported and believed in me along the way. I do so now, in no particular order, with great joy.

  Thank you to my friends and family for not saying I was crazy when I told you I was working on a book, and for understanding when I didn’t call or pick up the phone. To all who are not mentioned here by name, please know that you have touched me and helped me along this journey and will have my love and gratitude always.

  For reading earlier drafts and bolstering my confidence, thank you to Douglas Towne, Jana Chavoustie, Debbie Battista, and Mary Giaquinto, DVM. Thank you to Gary Chavoustie for igniting the spark that led to the idea and for being my “longest” friend. Thank you to Sophie Perinot, author of The Sister Queens, for your friendship and excellent advice, and to all my author friends over at Book Pregnant, for always being there whenever I need someone who understands this wild ride. BP rocks!

  I am especially grateful to my kind and brilliant agent, Michael Carr, for taking a chance on me and for helping me revise the manuscript. Without you, I would not have been able to achieve this final step of publication. I hope we can have lunch again someday. Next time I won’t be nervous! I’d also like to thank Michael’s associate, Katherine Boyle, for helping this novel find a home.

  I am forever indebted to my gracious and insightful editor, John Scognamiglio, for making my dream come true. John’s expert editorial guidance, along with the sharp eye of my copy editor, Debra Roth Kane, strengthened the book in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Many thanks also to the rest of the Kensington team for all your hard work turning my manuscript into a real live book.

  I will never find adequate words to thank my mentor, William Kowalski, award-winning author of Eddie’s Bastard, without whose formidable talent and immeasurable patience this novel would not exist. Thank you for teaching me to “Always Return To The Right Foot” and how to be a storyteller. I will be forever grateful for your gentle guidance, your kindness and generosity and, most of all, your friendship.

  To my beloved mother, Sigrid, thank you for giving me a rock to stand on. You raised me with love, instilled in me an appreciation for hard work, and taught me that with determination, all things are possible. You are an inspiration to all who know you. I hope you’re half as proud to be my mother as I am to be your daughter. Thank you for tirelessly sharing your stories and always believing that I have what it takes to share them with the world. This novel serves as a love letter to the beautiful place where you grew up and to the memory of sweet Oma and Opa. I hope it does them justice. To my father, Ted, thank you for always being there, and for giving me the love and security I needed to have a childhood with the freedom to dream. Thank you for the many trips to Germany, for sharing your love of the lake, and for all the incredible family memories.

  Thank you to my big brother, Bill, one of the best men I know, for always being someone I can count on. You and I have gone through a lot together, and I love you with all my heart. To my sister-in-law, Yvonne, thank you for your love and support, and for listening.

  Dear sweet Bill, my husband, my best friend, my partner in crime. You’re the kindest, most generous person I know, and I’m proud to be your wife. Thank you for unquestioningly and unhesitatingly supporting me during the years I was working on this novel and for not complaining about the numerous times we had soup and sandwiches for dinner. Thank you for your steadfast love, for riding this roller coaster with me, for enduring years of ceaseless babbling about WWII and Nazis, and for never faltering in your belief in me, especially when I didn’t believe in myself. I’m proud of us, and I’ll love you until the day I die.

  And finally, a most heartfelt thanks to my wonderful children, Ben, Jessie, and Shanae, and my precious grandchildren, Rylee and Harper, for making me proud and loving and supporting me, no matter what. Not a day goes by that I don’t celebrate the magnificent gift of being your mother and grandmother. You are my life, my world, my universe, and I love you with everything that I am.

  By appointing Hitler Chancellor of the Reich you have handed over our sacred German fatherland to one of the greatest demagogues of all time. I prophesy to you this evil man will plunge our Reich into the abyss and will inflict immeasurable woe on our nation. Future generations will curse you in your grave for this action.

  —Former general Erich Ludendorff,

  in a telegram to President Paul von Hindenburg

  CHAPTER 1

  Germany

  For seventeen-year-old Christine Bölz, the war began with a surprise invitation to the Bauermans’ holiday party. On that brilliant fall day in 1938, it was impossible to imagine the horrors to come. The air was as crisp and sweet as the crimson apples hanging in the orchards that lined the gentle foothills of the Kocher River valley. The sun was shining in a blue September sky quilted with tall, cottony clouds that swept rolling shadows over the countryside. It was quiet in the hills, except for the scolding jays and scurrying squirrels as they gathered seeds and nuts for the coming winter. Wood smoke and the mossy scent of spruce intermingled to produce a smoldering, earthy aroma that, despite the fall chill in the air, gave the morning depth and texture.

  Due to a shortage of rain that year, the leaf-covered trails of the forest were dry, and Christine could have run along the steep, rocky sections without fear of slipping. Instead, she took Isaac Bauerman’s hand and let
him help her down the lichen-covered boulder, wondering what he’d think if he knew how much time she spent in the woods. Normally, she would have leapt off the side of Devil’s Rock as if she were immortal, landing squarely on the slippery layers of pine needles and spongy earth, knees bent to keep from tumbling forward. But she didn’t jump this time, because she didn’t want him to think she was a lumbering tomboy who lacked class or manners or grace. Worse than that, she didn’t want him to think that she didn’t have the sense to realize that the legend about the boulder—that some boys playing hooky from church had once been struck and killed by lightning there—was nothing more than a spooky fable. He’d laughed when she told him, but after, as they gripped the boulder’s cracks and fissures and moved down its ancient side, she wished she hadn’t bored him with such a foolish childhood tale.

  “How did you know where I . . .” she said. “I mean . . . How did you find . . .”

  “I looked in my father’s desk for your wage records and got your address,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited myself over and joined you on your walk.”

  She walked faster, so he wouldn’t see her smile. “It’s all right with me,” she said. It was more than all right with her; it meant that the hollow sensation she felt whenever they were apart had disappeared. For now, at least. As soon as she had woken up that day, she’d started counting the hours until she could go to her job at his house. After a breakfast of warm goat’s milk and brown bread with plum jam, she had done her chores, then tried to read, but it was no use. She couldn’t stay at home another minute. Instead of watching the clock, she decided to go into the hills to search for edelweiss and alpine roses for Oma and Opa’s anniversary table.

  “But what would your parents think if they knew you were here?” she asked.

  “They wouldn’t think anything,” he said. He hurried ahead, then walked backwards in front of her, acting as if she were going to step on his toes and hopping out of the way just in time. He laughed, and she smiled, mesmerized by his playful grin.

  She knew that Isaac spent hours reading and studying and could probably recite the Latin names for the strawberries and hazelnuts that grew wild along the grassy knolls. More than likely, he could identify each species of bird, even in flight, and the different animals that had left paw tracks in the soft earth. But his knowledge came from pictures in books, while hers came from observation and years of folklore. She’d spent her childhood exploring the rolling hills and black forests that surrounded their hometown of Hessental. She was familiar with every winding trail and ancient tree, knew every cave and stream. What had begun as an early morning chore, collecting the edible mushrooms that her father had patiently taught her to identify, soon became her favorite pastime. She loved to escape the village, to walk along the edges of fields, cross the railroad tracks, and follow the rutted wagon trails until they tapered into narrow, wooded paths. It was her time alone, time to let her thoughts roam free.

  She couldn’t count the number of times she’d climbed to the thirteenth-century cathedral ruins in the heart of the forest, to daydream in the protected nest of soft grass formed by its three ancient, crumbling walls. The flying buttresses lent no support and the cathedral windows were empty now, serving as nothing more than stone frames for evergreen boughs, milky skies, or twinkling stars cradled in the white sickle of a quarter moon. But she often stood where she estimated the altar would have been, trying to imagine the lives of those who had prayed and married and cried beneath the church’s soaring arches: knights in shining armor and priests with long beards, baronesses roped in jewels, and ladies-in-waiting trailing behind.

  Her favorite time to hike to the highest point of the hill was early sunrise in the summer, when the dew extracted earthy scents from the soil, and the air filled with the fragrance of pine. She loved the first hushed day of winter too, when the world had settled into a slumber, and newly fallen snow sugarcoated the sheared yellow wheat fields and the gray, bare branches of trees. She was at home here, deep within the high-skirted evergreens, where the sunlight barely broke through to the musty forest floor, while Isaac was at home in a gabled mansion on the other side of town, where iron gates were flanked by trimmed hedges, and mammoth doors stood beneath ancient archways carved with stone gargoyles and medieval saints.

  “Well,” she said. “What would Luisa Freiberg think of you being here?”

  “I don’t know what she would think,” he said, falling in beside her. “And I don’t care.”

  If she’d known he was going to show up at her family’s house on Schellergasse Strasse that morning, waiting in silence on the stone steps behind her until she closed the oversized wrought iron latch on her front door, she would have worn her Sunday coat, not the tan wool overcoat that hung down to her ankles. It was thick and warm, a Christmas present from her beloved Oma, but its stiff collar and frayed pockets did little to hide the fact that in its former life it had been a carriage blanket.

  Now, as she led Isaac through the forest and down the hill toward the apple and pear orchards, she kept touching the coat’s buttons, running her fingers along its overlapped front, to make sure it concealed the old play clothes she had on underneath. The gathered arms of her childhood dress were too short, the stitch-less hem too high, the unbuttoned bust too tight, and the navy gingham too childish. Her leggings, held up by straps buttoned to her undershirt, were gray and nappy, covered by hundreds of pills and snags from catching on bushes and ragged bark. But it was what she always wore to hike, because, before today, she’d always come alone. In this outfit, she didn’t need to worry about ruining her clothes when she knelt in the dirt to pick wild mushrooms from beneath a damp fern or had to crawl on the ground to gather beechnuts for cooking oil.

  Like those of everyone else in her family, nearly all her clothes were reconstructed from printed cotton sheets or hand-me-downs. And until she’d started working for the Bauermans, she’d thought nothing of it. The majority of girls and women in her village dressed as she did, in worn dresses and skirts, starched aprons with mended pockets, and high, lace-up shoes. But now, when she went to her afternoon job at Isaac’s house, she always wore one of her two Sunday dresses. They were the best she owned, bartered for with brown eggs and goat’s milk at the local clothing shop.

  This upset Mutti—her mother’s name was Rose—who’d been working full-time at the Bauermans’ for the past ten years. The dresses were for church, not for dishes, washing clothes, and polishing silver. But Christine wore them anyway, ignoring Mutti’s hard look when she walked into the Bauermans’ beige-tiled kitchen. Sometimes, Christine borrowed a dress from her best friend, Kate, to wear to work, with promises to return it unsoiled. And when getting ready, she was always careful to brush and re-braid her hair, making sure the blond plaits were straight and even. But this morning, when Isaac had surprised her, her hair was in a haphazard braid down her back.

  To her relief, Isaac was wearing his brown work pants, suspenders, and a blue flannel shirt, the clothes he wore for cutting grass or chopping wood, instead of the pressed black trousers, white shirt, and navy vest he wore to Universität. Because, even though the Bauermans were one of the last wealthy families in town, Isaac’s father made certain that his children knew the virtues of labor. He gave Isaac and his younger sister, Gabriella, regular chores.

  “I know what your parents would think,” Christine said, keeping her eyes on the red dirt path.

  They made their way out of the dark interior of the forest, through thinning trees and gangly saplings, and emerged at the grassy edge of the highest apple orchard. Six white sheep were in the clearing, their woolly heads rising in unison at Christine and Isaac’s sudden appearance. Christine stopped and held up her hand, signaling Isaac to stand still. The sheep gazed back at them, then resumed their job of trimming the grass in the orchard. Satisfied that the sheep weren’t going to run off, Christine dropped her hand and moved forward, but Isaac grabbed it and pulled her back.

&n
bsp; He was over six-foot, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, a giant compared to her petite frame. And now that they were face-to-face, she felt blood rise in her cheeks as she looked up into his shining, chestnut eyes. She knew each feature by heart, the dark waves of hair that fell across his forehead, the chiseled jaw, the smooth, tanned skin of his brawny neck.

  “And how would you know what my parents think?” he said, grinning. “Did you and my mother sit down over coffee and cake, so she could tell you all about it?”

  “Nein,” Christine said, laughing. “Your mother didn’t invite me for coffee.”

  Isaac’s mother, Nina, was a fair and generous employer, occasionally sending home gifts for Christine’s family: Lindzertorte cookies, Apfelstrudel, or Pflaumenkuchen, plum cake. At first, Mutti had tried to object to Nina’s gifts, but it was no use. Nina would shake her head and insist, saying it made her feel good to help the less fortunate. At the Bauermans’ they had real coffee, not Ersatz Kaffee, or chicory, and every so often, Isaac’s mother sent a pound home with Christine. But it wasn’t Nina Bauerman’s policy to sit down and drink from her best china with the help.

  “Mutti said it was understood about you and Luisa,” Christine said, distracted by the strength of his wide, warm hand gripping hers. She pulled her hand away and started walking again, her heart pounding.

  “There’s no understanding,” he said, following her. “And I don’t care what anyone thinks. Besides, I thought you knew. Luisa is leaving for the Sorbonne.”

  “But she’ll be back. Right? And Mutti told me . . . Frau Bauerman always says: ‘Use the best silverware tonight, Rose. Luisa and her family are coming for dinner.’ And just last week, ‘It’s Luisa’s birthday, so please buy the best herrings to make Matjesheringe in Rahmsosse; it’s her favorite. And make sure that Isaac and Luisa are seated next to each other for afternoon coffee and cake.’ ”